Watson's Sword
by Azolean
Summary: Ever wonder what motivated Watson to suddenly share a part of Holmes' heart in 3GAR? Non-slash Post-Provocation from my series.
1. Chapter One

_**A/N: **After my last little tidbit here on FF, I was in desperately need of something a little lighter. Let's face it, anyone who's ever read 3GAR has filled in details or come up with an alternate at least once. Yep, I'm no exception. _

_And a very special thank you to everyone that has reviewed "Flatmates to Friends" and "Reality of Madness". You are a wonderful bunch and have motivated me greatly to keep going with these little pieces._

_Yep, my epic failure streak in decent titles has not abandoned me yet. *sigh* Again, hopefully the story is less disappointing than the title._

* * *

**Chapter One**

Watson stalked the too-small confines of his lonely sitting room in London. His aging joints and aching old war wounds cursed him in this foul late-February weather. But, for him, the pain only helped to fuel the fire he was now feeling. Stalking back and forth in the sparse room he ignored the burned-down fire and fumed. He felt heated enough at this point he no longer felt the need for a fire.

Growling wordlessly he cursed his dear, retired friend with a vehemence that would likely not have surprised either one of them. Any other time, this might even have been amusing to some small extent. But where Emily's happiness was concerned, Watson was all seriousness. He still could not believe the stubborn old man, sitting alone in his cottage after all these years would still be such a—

"Callous! Selfish! Bloo—"

"Father? Is everything alright?"

Watson's pacing ceased instantly as the ungentlemanly words he caught himself about to speak died on his lips. Turning to face his daughter, he scowled as he shoved his hands in his pockets dejectedly. Shaking his head, he felt the fire within dying down once again to cold, still-burning embers.

"I'm sorry, Emily," Watson apologized sadly. "Holmes refuses."

Emily gave a valiant effort to stifle her own disappointment. Almost thirty-four years old, the woman still felt the need to protect her father from her sadness at times. It broke his heart to see the struggle in those deep-blue eyes just as much now as it had in those caverns all those many years ago. Stepping forward, he took her by the hands.

"I'm sorry, dear. I—"

"It's alright," Emily was quick to assure him. Leading him over to his fireside chair, she sat him down. "You're chilled to the bone! Sit. Sit! I will get us some tea. Don't worry yourself over it, we will find another. After all, it's just my wedding. It's not as if he hasn't been there for—"

"Oh, Emily," Watson said sadly. "Don't make excuses for the old—"

Whatever it was he was about to call Holmes he quickly stifled behind his mustache when those blue eyes flared angrily. "None of that, Father. He _is _still my uncle. And, we both know how he can be about such things."

Watson sighed heavily. "You certainly have more patience for him than I do, these days."

Emily chuckled as she finished stoking the fire into a nice, warming blaze. "Perhaps. Now, rest, I shall make some tea."

Staring sadly into the flames, Watson realized his own anger had burned down considerably in light of his daughter's understanding. He was still hurt on her behalf. It had been a simple request, and not an unexpected one. She had simply asked if Holmes would play for her wedding that was scheduled for spring of 1925 when her fiancé would return from overseas. Holmes had, of course, refused. After all these decades pretending to the public that Emily did not exist for her own protection, it now came down to this. Upon her wedding there would be no more secrets, and Holmes still refused for his own personal reasons.

Watson had spent many years worrying about his daughter's happiness as she turned away nearly every potential suitor. She had grown into a beautiful young woman of grace and quiet dignity that caught the eye of every man she met. Those few times Watson expressed his concern for her future, however, she would simply tell them that none could live up to her expectations. It was not until she was well into her twenties that Watson finally realized she was looking for the type of man she could measure against her two heros. And, in this widely changing world, that was a task easier said than done.

And then she had met Charles Dewhurst. Though the man had come from a rather large family, he was not close to them. He had a sincere dislike of those who put up false pretenses of superiority or wealth. He was possessed of a desire to make a name for himself in the world as he helped others. Though he had many grand dreams, there was no doubting his feet were firmly planted in reality. Ever the concerned father, Watson had seen for himself the security he setup financially to ensure the young man would likely never fall into debt. The idea that this man would likely be taking his beautiful Emily away from him and her home did not concern him as it once had. All he had to do to assure himself of her happiness was gaze into those sparkling blue eyes. He knew the man possessed a large, stout heart that he had happily handed to Emily, and that was enough for Watson.

Holmes, however, had taken the other side of the fatherly view of things. No man could possibly live up to his expectations of a worthy husband for his niece. He had refused to meet the man more than the one time Emily had prodded him out of his cottage and back to London for a day. And, even then, he had had to be tricked into visiting what he thought was an ill Watson asking for his friend. He had made his stance quite clear to the young Mr. Dewhurst.

Charles Dewhurst had given a good account of himself, in Watson's eyes. The verbal sparring match had been chilly, but both had walked away equal. Disappointed but not to be deterred, he had held himself proudly in the face of Holmes' verbal assaults on his character, profession, and lifestyle. Emily had bravely withstood the worst of it until Watson had been forced to put an end to the situation. Holmes, feeling all the more rejected had refused to have anything further to do with Emily from that day forward. He said he was waiting for her to come to her senses.

Emily had been heartbroken and horrified. For a time, it seemed she would be forced to choose between her beloved uncle and her fiancé. Watson's appearance in Holmes' cottage had been a fiery explosion of tempers, but it had worked. He had returned to London with a letter of apology to Emily. Holmes still refused to condone her choice, but he would not force her to chose between them, either. It was not a success, but had at least maintained the peace for nearly a year now.

However, as they had finally chosen a date after what Watson considered to be an almost ridiculously long stage of courtship, engagement, and planning; he had once again attempted to gain Holmes' interest in his niece's future.

"Here, this will warm those cold hands," Emily said, breaking into his darkly depressed thoughts as she placed a cup of tea in his hands.

Sipping the tea, he let the soothing comfort of his daughter's presence and the fire relax him, somewhat. There seemed no words appropriate to the situation. Seeing the disappointment in Emily's profile, Watson again felt his ire rising. Silently he cursed Holmes again, recalling some of their recent conversation.

~o~o~o~

After Watson had asked Emily's request, he watched Holmes' profile closely. The man had simply snorted and gone back to smoking his pipe cheerfully beside the fire.

"Absolutely not," Holmes finally stated, realizing Watson was waiting for something more verbal. "You have spent her entire life keeping her out of the public eye. Just because you've chosen to make this ridiculous affair a public one, does not mean I chose to do so."

"Of course it's public," Watson threw back, somewhat heatedly. "It's her wedding!"

"Where there will be all the usual displays of sentiment and—"

"She's asking you to play your violin at her wedding, not find a wife for yourself!"

"And when the rest of the public learns that the great author Dr. Watson's daughter is the one to marry, not to mention Emily's uncle the great detective Sherlock Holmes will be in attendance..."

"Is that such a bad thing?" Watson asked, finally beginning to understand at least somewhat. "You have been retired for some years now. In their eyes, you're still the—"

"Cold, calculating machine," Holmes finished, scowling darkly. "And that can remain their view."

"So it's _your_ image you're concerned with here, not Emily's happiness?"

"Of course I'm concerned for her happiness," Holmes snapped back. "She's being married off to a young man of dubious—"

"Enough of that! We've discussed that already, and I haven't changed my mind; nor has Emily."

"Very well, then. I am the brain without a heart, remember? It has kept her safe this long. I see no reason why it should change now."

"How _dare _you put your—"

"I do dare! My answer is still no," Holmes said, rising from his chair to head toward his bedroom. "Good night, Watson."

Filled with unspoken anger at his friend's combined refusal and Holmes' way of ending the argument leaving him no way to express that anger, Watson had taken his things and headed back to London immediately. His plan to spend the weekend was already ruined. He did not feel the need to wait around. He had only been surprised by the fact that the travel in such cold, foul weather had done nothing to cool his temper.

~o~o~o~

"Brain without a heart.." Watson murmured unconsciously into his tea.

Stirring beside him, Emily shifted her sad thoughts back to the present as she turned to gaze at her uncle. Something in that wicked grin stirred concern in her heart.

"Father?"

Suddenly Watson recalled the present. He stifled his grin behind his mustache as he turned an innocent expression on his daughter. "Yes, dear?"

Emily's frowning disapproval of such a patently false expression mirrored Holmes' to a degree it was almost painful to see. "What are you thinking?"

"Don't worry yourself, Emily. I will be fine in the morning. It's nothing a good night's sleep and some of your wonderful tea won't cure."

She cocked an eyebrow at him that again reminded him of Holmes, only this time he couldn't stifle the chuckle that rose in his chest. Setting aside his cup, he took her into his arms; silently he cherished some of what he knew would be the last times he would spend in such close company of his daughter. However, he hoped that one day soon these would be replaced with bouncing grandchildren on his knees.

"I am truly sorry Holmes is being so stubborn," Watson murmured soothingly into her blond curls. "But there is still time, yet. Perhaps he will change his mind."

She relaxed into his embrace, the sense of safety she felt there had not diminished in the nearly thirty years since the first. "Thank you, daddy."

"Now," he said, pulling back to gaze at her from arms' length once more, "it's time old men like me were off to bed."

She snorted in a rather unladylike fashion. "For a moment there, I thought you were going to shoo me off to bed again."

Watson chuckled warmly again, draping a comforting arm around her shoulders. "Would you like a bedtime story?"


	2. Chapter Two

_**A/N: **Once again, credit for the italicized goes to ACD as it is pulled straight from his story "The Adventure of the Three Garridebs"._

_Well...This did **not** turn out the way I was expecting it to go. Watson and Holmes decided they were going to take over and this is what happened. Guess I'll have to take a shot at re-writing 3GAR along with everyone else in a later fic. _

* * *

**Chapter Two**

Holmes spluttered as he choked on his coffee. If glares had any physical effect, then the item he had dropped to the table would be nothing but ash. His gray eyes blazed furiously as he picked up the offending item and reread what he refused to believe he was seeing.

_ Clearly our moment had come. Holmes touched my wrist as a signal, and together we stole across to the open trap-door. Gently as we moved, however, the old floor must have creaked under our feet, for the head of our American, peering anxiously round, emerged suddenly from the open space. His face turned upon us with a glare of baffled rage, which gradually softened into a rather shamefaced grin as he realized that two pistols were pointed at his head._

_ "Well, well!" said he coolly as he scrambled to the surface. "I guess you have been one too many for me, Mr. Holmes. Saw through my game, I suppose, and played me for a sucker from the first. Well, sir, I hand it to you; you have me beat and—"_

_ In an instant he had whisked out a revolver from his breast and had fired two shots. I felt a sudden hot sear as if a red-hot iron had been pressed to my thigh. There was a crash as Holmes's pistol came down on the man's head. I had a vision of him sprawling upon the floor with blood running down his face while Holmes rummaged him for weapons. Then my friend's wiry arms were round me, and he was leading me to a chair._

_ "You're not hurt, Watson? For God's sake, say that you are not hurt!"_

_ It was worth a wound—it was worth many wounds—to know the depth of loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask. The clear, hard eyes were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips were shaking. For the one and only time I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as of a great brain. All my years of humble but single-minded service culminated in that moment of revelation._

_ "It's nothing, Holmes. It's a mere scratch."_

_ He had ripped up my trousers with his pocketknife._

_ "You are right," he cried with an immense sigh of relief. "It is quite superficial." His face set like flint as he glared at our prisoner, who was sitting up with a dazed face. "By the Lord, it is as well for you. If you had killed Watson, you would not have got out of this room alive. Now, sir, what have you to say for yourself?"_

Moments later Holmes was dressing and planning his trip to London. Watson had some explaining to do.

~o~o~o~

"Ah, Holmes! What a wonderful surprise," Watson greeted his friend enthusiastically, completely ignoring the baleful glare. Swinging the door open, he swept his arm toward the sitting room. "I'll just be a moment while I make some tea. Emily will be delighted to see you."

"Watson—"

"She's out right now with Mrs. Bennings, but she should be home in time for dinner," Watson continued merrily as he pushed Holmes in the direction of the sitting room.

"Watson—"

"Just a moment, dear chap," Watson called back as he headed toward the kitchen. "Would you prefer tea or coffee?"

"Watson—"

"Tea it is, then!"

"Watson!"

Pausing in the doorway of the sitting room, Watson crossed his arms and leaned a little too casually against the door frame. He could not even begin to disguise the smug smile that lit his wrinkled features as he again took in Holmes' fuming countenance. "Yes, Holmes?"

Holmes threw his copy of _The Strand_ down on the table with enough force to make Watson wince. "You know perfectly well why I'm here," Holmes started darkly.

All innocence, Watson glanced down before frowning dubiously. "Really, Holmes! Retirement must not be sitting well with you at all. It must be those long months spent during the winters with nothing to occupy yourself. When did you take to reading such rubbish?"

Holmes blinked. A moment later he found himself choking for the second time that day as he attempted to force his thoughts into coherent words. Watson's smile had taken on a wicked sort of glee in the face of Holmes' fury. Eventually the detective started to wind down.

"You completely disregarded the facts! This is a blatant—"

"You've made your point, Holmes," Watson finally said, cutting him off before he could wind up again. "And I am in absolute agreement. It was grossly unfair of me. I should never have left out your own injury. After all, the grievously wounded hero caring selflessly for his injured friend is a very popular theme with readers these days."

Still grinning tauntingly, Watson wondered if Holmes' eyes were going to fall out of his head or if his friend was going to faint with horror at the idea. His pale features were red with fury. Watson cut him off before he could speak.

"Don't worry, I did make sure I kept to the facts in _The Adventure of the Illustrious Client_ regarding your wounds and heroic recovery."

"You wouldn't dare," Holmes said, finally recovering some of his composure. "The players involved in that one were too—"

"I did. It's already done."

Holmes' face went white to his lips.

Pushing himself off the door frame, Watson decided it was time to put an end to this before Holmes' did himself harm collapsing right there. He dropped all pretenses of amusement as he stalked resolutely toward his friend quivering with anger. He was only mildly surprised when Holmes actually backed himself into sitting unexpectedly on the sofa.

"You wanted the rest of the world to think you were a heartless machine, and I was willing to accept that for my own reasons; especially in the eyes of the public. I'm the one that said Emily would be kept a secret for her own safety, and I still say it was the right decision."

Watson stepped forward to loom menacingly over his seated friend. In a voice made soft and dark with his anger he continued, "But you are _retired._ There is no one left that will likely ever come after you, or me. And, after the wedding, Emily will be leaving London. No one will go after her, either. There is no reason to keep up this little game of yours when all it's really accomplishing is hurting your own niece."

Holmes opened his mouth as if to protest. Watson cut him off with a gesture.

"No! I will not accept any arguments on this subject. If you have no intentions of attending or playing at her wedding, then you will at least find an explanation I _can _accept."

For a moment Holmes could only stare in wonder. This was the side of his Watson he had seldom had occasion to see in the las thirty years since adopting Emily. The father in Watson possessed the heart of a lion and was not afraid to unleash it, even on his dearest friend. Holmes found he could no longer face that wrath. Bowing his head, he slumped dejectedly into the cushions. Seeing this, Watson felt his anger diminish considerably. Forgoing the refreshments, he calmly seated himself in the chair across from Holmes. He gave his friend some time to gather his thoughts.

"She will be returning to visit? Perhaps for the holidays?"

The last of his anger faded away as his heart squeezed painfully at these words. Watson's face softened in understanding. "You don't want her to leave."

Still staring at his twitching fingers in his lap, Holmes shook his head. He could not find it in himself to face his friend. "I had hoped she would find a decent husband here in London, or..."

"So, driving her away was easier than feeling left behind?" Watson asked gently, already knowing the answer and needing Holmes to see it for himself.

The misery on those features was heartbreaking to his old friend. He knew Holmes had loved Emily just as much as himself in all their years together. But, unlike himself, Holmes was never really cut out to be a full-time father. Seeing his little girl grow into a woman and then marry and move away was more than he could take, apparently. It had been hard enough on Holmes leaving them behind here in London when he retired. He watched as Holmes nodded miserably.

For a moment, the two sat in silence. Watson contemplated these things while Holmes obviously did the same, still giving every outward appearance of shame for his behavior of the last year or so. Feeling the need to relieve his friend of some of the unpleasant emotions he was now falling into, Watson stood and slowly surveyed his surroundings.

"It would seem I was right in my assumption," he finally said, as if musing to himself. "You spend far too many months alone in that cottage during the winters."

Holmes snorted behind him, picking up the thread of this seemingly inconsequential bit of conversation. "I had considered adopting a dog, you know. But they are noisy beasts and disturb the bees."

To this Watson nodded as if in agreement. "And, as I recall, your last attempt at keeping a cat did not end well for either of you."

Holmes was glad Watson's back was turned to him as his face flushed scarlet to his hairline at that memory. "No, not well at all."

Heaving a theatrically exaggerated sigh Watson finally turned his attention back to his friend on the sofa. "There's nothing for it, then. I'll just have to retire and take you up on that offer."

Holmes' gray eyes widened in surprise at this sudden statement. Watson chuckled as he smiled warmly. "I'm too old for these busy city streets anymore. Younger, more energetic doctors are leading the way to new inventions in medicine. I've only stayed this long for Emily. When she weds, there will be no reason for me to stay."

"You would do that?"

"Of course, dear friend. After the first twenty or so times you offered—"

"Fifteen!"

"Fifteen, then," Watson conceded, "I had been seriously considering it. But Emily needed to be here, in London; and I knew she would want to follow unless she had someone else to keep her attentions."

As Watson moved to seat himself at the opposite end of the sofa, Holmes considered these things.

"I can still drive a deaf person out of the room with my violin when I'm in a mood and I perform odious experiments with my chemicals," he warned with mock severity.

Laughing heartily Watson took up his own part of the memory from a time long past. "And I still spend more time scribbling in journals and reading than doing anything useful with my time."

"Well, then I suppose I could tolerate sharing a living space with you again for a while," Holmes threw back airily.

"How very gracious of you, Holmes."

Holmes shared a smile, relieved that this part was over. Now for the worst. His expression darkened as Watson cocked his head curiously at him.

"I really should apologize to Emily."

Watson nodded. "That would be best."

Slumping dejectedly once again, Holmes stared morosely at the floor. He had never really developed that skill. He was already considering other options when Watson caught on to his thoughts.

"Worry about that later. I'm going to make some tea. Come, we should—"

"Uncle Holmes!" Emily's excited cry came from the foyer as she opened the door to spy them on their way to the kitchen.

Obviously uncomfortable with this encounter so close on the heels of his previous line of thought, he glanced to Watson helplessly as Emily threw her arms around his neck. Watson grinned and nodded toward the sitting room before turning to disappear into the kitchen.

"I've missed you," Emily said, pulling back. "You're not eating enough, again. Really, Uncle Holmes! You would think a grown man would have enough sense to at least take care of himself."

Chuckling at this motherly display from a woman he could remember admonishing for refusing to eat her peas, he helped her shed her coat and other accessories. "It is good to see you, Emily."

For a moment, she cocked her head at Holmes in a way that reminded him so much of his Watson it instantly eased his tension. "What brought you here, Uncle? Are you quite alright? You and Father didn't have another argument or—"

Silencing her with a raised hand, he led her into the sitting room. "You need not worry. That part is over, I assure you."

Emily seemed relieved by this news as Holmes sat her on the sofa. Taking the chair across from her, he could not help noticing those large blue eyes scrutinizing him with some concern nonetheless. That critical gaze again reminded him so much of his Watson he could feel his heart softening all over again.

_Sentimental old fool,_ he told himself. Staring down at his clasped hands, he forced himself to begin.

"I came to apologize to you and ask your forgiveness. My behavior these last several months has been atrocious and—"

Holmes stopped as he found his hands enveloped in her smaller, daintier ones. Chilled as they were, they warmed his heart as she ducked lower to force his gray eyes to meet hers.

"You don't have to apologize, Uncle. I'll miss you too."

Not for the first time, this child—no, _woman_—surprised him to speechlessness. Her insightfulness into his character more than rivaled even Watson's; it always had. He should have known she would see straight through to the truth. Not certain if he should be feeling embarrassed or relieved, he watched as those deep blue eyes turned uncertain.

"I_ do _love him, Uncle. And I—I had hoped...that—that maybe you..."

Now Holmes found his hands wrapping around hers. "Does he make you happy?"

"Yes," she replied without hesitation, though somewhat curious.

"And he knows there is nowhere in the world he can hide from your father and I should that ever change?"

Emily giggled in a way that reminded him of the child she had once been so very long ago now, it seemed. "Yes, Uncle. Finding out he was engaged to the daughter of the great Dr. Watson and niece of the great Sherlock Holmes was almost enough to scare him off by itself."

Holmes sniffed disdainfully. "Well, then maybe..."

Seeing her heart in those eyes plummeting at his words, he sighed. He never could deny them for long. "You have my blessing, and my sincerest desire that you always find your happiness in the man you love."

The expression of joy that filled her features was more than Holmes could have ever imagined. When she flung herself into his arms this second time she was trying to conceal her tears in his shoulder. Holmes wrapped his arms around her and held her tight, knowing he would not have many of these opportunities left to him.

Watson stepped around the door frame with the tea tray in hand and stopped. For several seconds he took in the sight of his healed family. He felt a sense of peace settle over his heart that warmed him. Sensing that other presence that had hovered near his heart for so many decades, he smiled.

_ Do you see it, Mary? I told you he would come around._

_ "And I told you not to push him, stubborn old man,"_ he fancied he could hear her retort.


End file.
